perpetuates the remembrance of men on earth; in the recorded proofs of their own great actions, in the offspring of their intellect, in the deep engraved lines of public gratitude, and in the respect and homage of mankind. They live in their example; and they live, emphatically, and will live, in the influence which their lives and efforts, their principles and opinions, now exercise, and will continue to exercise, on the affairs of men, not only in their own country, but throughout the civilized world.

A superior and commanding human intellect, a truly great man, when Heaven vouchsafes so rare a gift, is not a temporary flame, burning bright for a while, and then expiring, giving place to returning darkness. It is rather a spark of fervent heat, as well as radiant light, with power to enkindle the coinmon mass of human mind; so that, when it glimmers, in its own decay, and finally goes out in death, no night follows; but it leaves the world all light, all on fire, from the potent contact of its own spirit.

Bacon died; but the human understanding, 10used by the touch of his miraculous wand to a perception of the true philosophy and the just mode of inquiring after truth, has kept on its course successfully and gloriously. Newton died; yet the courses of the spheres are still known, and they yet move on, in the orbits which he saw and described for them, in the infinity of space.

No two men now live-perhaps it may be doubted whether any two men have ever lived in one age-who, more than those we now commemorate, have impressed their own sentiments, in regard to politics and government, on mankind, infused their own opinions more deeply into the opinions of others, or given a more lasting direction to the current of human thought. Their work doth not perish with them. (The tree which they assisted to plant will flourish, although they water it and protect it no longer; for it has struck its roots deep; it has sent them to the very center; no storm, not of force to burst the orb, can overturn it; its branches spread wide; they stretch their protecting arms broader and broader, and its top is destined to reach the heavens.

We are not deceived. There is no delusion here. No age will come in which the American revolution will appear less than it is, one of the greatest events in human history. No age will come in which it will cease to be seen and felt, on either continent, that a

affairs, but in

mighty step, a great advance, not only in American human affairs, was made on the 4th of July, 1776. And no age will come, we trust, so ignorant, or so unjust, as not to see and acknowledge the efficient agency of these we now honor in producing that momentous event.

Daniel Webster

Polish War Song.

Freedom calls you! Quick, be ready,-
Rouse ye in the name of God,-
Onward, onward, strong and steady,-
Dash to earth the oppressor's rod.
Freedom calls, ye brave!

Rise, and spurn the name of slave.

Grasp the sword!-its edge is keen,
Seize the gun!-its ball is true:
Sweep your land from tyrant clean,-
Haste, and scour it through and through!
Onward, onward! Freedom cries,
Rush to arms,-the tyrant flies.

By the souls of patriots gone,
Wake,-arise,-your fetters break,
Kosciusko bids you on,—

Sobieski cries awake!

Rise, and front the despot czar,
Rise, and dare the unequal war.

Freedom calls you! Quick,, be ready,—
Think of what your sires have been,-
Onward, onward! strong and steady,-
Drive the tyrant to his den.

On, and let the watchwords be,
Country, home, and liberty!

James G. Percival.

The Boys.

This selection is a poem addressed to the class of 1829, in Harvard College, some thirty years after their graduation.

Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?

If there has, take him out, without making a noise.
Hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite!
Old Time is a liar; we're twenty to-night.

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?
He's tipsey,-young jackanapes!-show him the door!
"Gray temples at twenty?"-Yes! white if we please;
Where the snow-flakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze!

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!
Look close, you will see not a sign of a flake!

We want some new garlands for those we have shed,
And these are white roses in place of the red.

We 've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,

Of talking (in public) as if we were old;

That boy we call "Doctor" and this we call "Judge” !
It's a neat little fiction,-of course it's all fudge.

That fellow's the "Speaker," the one on the right;

"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you to-night?

That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff;
There's the "Reverend "—what's his name?—don't make me laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical look

Made believe he had written a wonderful book,

And the Royal Society thought it was true!

So they chose him right in,—a good joke it was, too!

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,
That could harness a team with a logical chain;

When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled fire,
We called him "The Justice," but now he 's the "Squire."

And there's a nice youngster of excellent pith;
Fate tried to conceal him by naming him Smith;
But he shouted a song for the brave and the free,-
Just read on his medal, "My country," "of thee"!

You hear that boy laughing? You think he's all fun;
But the angels laugh, too, at the good he has done;
The children laugh loud as they troop to his call,
And the poor man that knows him laughs loudest of all.

Yes, we're boys, always playing with tongue or with pen;
And I sometimes have asked, Shall we ever be men?
Shall we always be youthful, and laughing, and gay,
Till the last dear companion drops smiling away?

Then here's to our boyhood, its gold and its gray !
The stars of its winter, the dews of its May!
And when we have done with our life-lasting toys,
Dear Father, take care of Thy children, THE BOYS!

Oliver W Holmes

An Order for a Picture.

O, good painter, tell me true,

Has your hand the cunning to draw
Shapes of things that you never saw?
Aye? Well, here is an order for you.

Woods and cornfields a little brown,

The picture must not be over-bright,-
Yet all in the golden and gracious light,
Of a cloud when the summer sun is down.

Alway and alway, night and morn,
Woods upon woods, with fields of corn

Lying between them, not quite sere,
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom,
When the wind can hardly find breathing room
Under their tassels,-cattle near,

Biting shorter the short green grass,
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras,
With bluebirds twittering all around,-
Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound!

These and the little house where I was born,
Low and little and black and old,

With children, many as it can hold,
All at the windows, open wide,-
Heads and shoulders clear outside,
And fair young faces all ablush;

Perhaps you may have seen, some day,
Roses crowding the self-same way,
Out of a wilding, way-side bush.

Listen closer. When you have done

With woods and cornfields and grazing herds,
A lady, the loveliest ever the sun
Looked down upon, you must paint for me;
Oh, if I only could make you see

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile,
The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace,
The woman's soul and the angel's face
That are beaming on me all the while!
I need not speak these foolish words:
Yet one word tells you all I would say,-
She is my mother: you will agree
That all the rest may be thrown away.

Two little urchins at her knee

You must paint, sir; one like me,—
The other with a clearer brow,
And the light of his adventurous eyes
Flashing with boldest enterprise :

At ten years old he went to sea,—
God knoweth if he be living now,-
He sailed in the good ship "Commodore,"-
Nobody ever crossed her track

To bring us news, and she never came back.
Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more
Since that old ship went out of the bay
With my great-hearted brother on her deck:
I watched him till he shrank to a speck,
And his face was toward me all the way.